Weary Absense of Love

come sadness,
come silence,
just like my screams,
put me asleep,
or love me.
it's improbable to dream.

nothing sensable,
is attainable,
come cloud my fractional mind,
I'm adamantly out of reach,
love is in no means sensable,
at the least,
perchance a figure of speech.

I find the weariest souls,
sleeping under my skin,
they latch their sorrow unto me,
they've molded who I am,
who I've been.
feigns of the effervescent time,
consisted of bashful, literary rhymes,
although passive,
I find myself dying from time to time.

on the edge of a vapid passerby
she tells me,
it seems so intriging, to die
just keep breathing.
I can't help but imagine,
what I'd find.
after all that time,
what I'd find...
 in the weary absense of love.